


Call Me Nothing

by maraudersaffair



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Chair Sex, Cunnilingus, F/F, Hair-pulling, Loneliness, Masturbation, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Violent Sex, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-10 04:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15941921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersaffair/pseuds/maraudersaffair
Summary: In a lonely hotel room, Villianelle remembers her first time with Anna and imagines what it would be like with Eve.





	Call Me Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alamorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy it, Alamorn! I tried to include most of your requests for _Killing Eve_.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Villanelle’s life was nothing but hotel rooms. Lonely, filthy rooms. She paced these rooms, staring at nothing, fiddling with weapons. She liked holding big knives and imagining. She liked running her hands over cold barrels and hard triggers, knowing their violence and craving it. 

What she craved most was sex, but with her, sex and violence were the same. 

She supposed she was overcompensating. She was _traumatized_. She was a monster. She was the loneliest fucking person on the planet, and the only thing she had to show for it was a closet of expensive clothes. The clothes _were_ nice, though.

She was in another faceless room. It was raining outside, and the spatters sounded like fingertips on the window. Tapping. Beckoning. It was easy to kill in the rain if she protected her weapons. Downpours blinded and obscured. Her victim would scream, but only once, and maybe she could time it with the sound of thunder. 

_Stop._ Despite popular opinion, she did have a conscience. Maybe. Sometimes she felt guilty, or what she thought was guilt. Emotion was always something just beyond her, something she sought, tracked, hunted down.

Eve Polastri knew emotion. She let it in like light. She knew fear and anger and love. She was not afraid to be weak. Her hair was like Anna’s and Villanelle wanted to run her fingers through it.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Agitated, she dropped down on the bed and turned on the television. _La télévision._

She ate leftover fried chicken and starchy pierogis without taking her eyes off the screen. A stupid film was on and she didn’t care about the characters or the storyline. She focused on the food, pushed it around her mouth, eating faster and faster until she almost choked. She wouldn’t mind dying from a chicken leg in her throat. 

When her stomach began to ache, she threw the food to the carpet and fell back on the bed. The ceiling had water stains. She wondered who had fucked on this bed. She wondered if the women had come. 

That had been Anna’s problem. She only knew cooking and God. She only knew her husband’s smelly cock. Villanelle had changed that. Even then, she knew she was a pretty girl. Even then, she knew what it took to make a woman’s thighs quake. (Twisting, moaning, desperate to get away. A throb went through Villanelle when she stabbed women. Death made them kick their legs and cry out. It made their backs arch like she had her whole fucking hand inside them.)

Villanelle had liked Anna’s ugly mouth. She had been so desperate for attention. Villanelle talked to her about God and asked her for recipes. She pressed against her, breasts against breasts, and made sure Anna felt her hand sneak up her dress.

“What are you doing?” Anna had whispered.

“You want it.” Villanelle brushed her ugly, ugly panties. 

“No – my husband –”

Villanelle kissed her. God, women were so soft, their mouths so kissable. Anna squeaked; she shuddered away like a little bird.

“This is wrong.”

“Please,” Villanelle said. “I’m so lonely.”

“We can talk – we can pray –”

Villanelle dropped to her knees. She opened her mouth to her soaked panties. Anna convulsed; her head fell back on the wall. 

“ _Oksana_ ,” she whispered.

 _Shut up!_ Villanelle hated that name. She wanted to be nothing, absolutely nothing. 

She dragged her tongue over her panties, outlining her lips, dipping in to taste her. She helped her out of those panties, then her mouth was back, her tongue seeking out her clit. Her pubic hair was wild and soft; later, Villanelle would shave her, and she wondered if she could get away with drawing blood. 

“I can’t stand. I can’t –”

“The chair.” Villanelle picked her up and gently set her down on the _babushka_ chair. She took off the rest of her clothes and ran her hands over her full breasts, her round stomach. Her thighs were fat and pale and lovely. Villanelle pressed her open mouth to her warm, warm skin. 

“Oksana,” Anna whispered again, and widened her legs. 

“Yes? What do you want me to do to you?”

“Anything.”

Back in the hotel room, Villanelle was fingering herself to the memory. She wished Eve would tell her she could do anything to her. _Anything?_ Villanelle would say. _Can I choke you until your eyes swim with blood?_

But, no: She didn’t want to do that to Eve. She wanted to hold and kiss her; she wanted to make love to her.

She’d made love to Anna. At least, that was what Anna had called it. Her fingers sped up, focusing again on the memory. She’d ate her slowly, licking, probing. She’d pushed her tongue inside and Anna had shouted.

“Be quiet. You don’t want to alarm the neighbors.”

“I can’t, I can’t.” Anna’s head was thrown back, all those ugly teeth on display.

Villanelle sucked her clit; she penetrated her with two fingers, rubbing up. Anna shook; she twisted. Her face was pink and sweaty and she was on the edge.

“Stop! Oh, God, stop!”

“Come for me. I know you can come for me.”

“I can’t – it’s too much –”

“You can.” Villanelle ran her teeth over her clit, nibbling, sucking. She quickened her fingers. 

“Oksana!” Anna clenched hard, writhing, her hands like claws in her hair. Villanelle wondered if it was her first orgasm. 

Afterward, Anna had pulled her close and whispered to her: “ _Moya lyubov'_.” She had always been too sentimental. 

Villanelle wondered what Eve would call her after sex. They would kiss as she murmured: _Maniac. Killer. Sex God_.

What would make Eve come the hardest? She was married to a man. She wanted cock, thick, hard, deep. She wanted a pounding. Villanelle could give it to her. She could fill her up with a dildo bigger than her husband; she could fuck her so hard she ached for days. 

“Fuck, Villanelle.” Eve would moan. She would laugh. “You dirty, dirty girl.”

“Let me.” Villanelle would thrust hard, over and over. “Let me.”

“Yes.”

“Let me have everything.” Villanelle tugged her hair, controlling her.

Eve arched into her cock. “Anything, anything.”

Back in the hotel room, Villanelle came silently, her mouth falling open. She imagined Eve’s blood spilling over like an embrace. She imagined kissing her as she grew cold and stiff. 

Orgasms always left her feeling so empty. She pulled herself up with a groan and went to the sink to wash her hand. She glanced at the window. There was more rain. There was more thunder. 

She put on her coat and grabbed her favorite knife. She left the hotel room.


End file.
